


Comparisions

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Non-Human Genitalia, Nonbinary Character, Other, Tentacles, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4383191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey! Hey, don’t- don’t be so goddamn rude,” grumbled Strife, reaching out to tug the tendrils gently off Lying’s fingers, cupping them carefully in one hand and shielding both them and his cillia from view. “They’re perfectly normal where I come from. What the hell do yours look like, then?”<br/>Lying raised a thoughtful eyebrow. “I suppose it’s only fair,” they said slowly. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, and all that.”</p><p>(Strife and Lying have a dick-measuring contest, but without the dicks, and with a lot more <i>hands-on</i> examination than usual.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comparisions

**Author's Note:**

> i was bored and sam sent me a message that started “I'm thinking abt witch lying stepping on strife”, and the conversation devolved into discussing the two of them comparing tentacles. so, have some celebratory-ish porn-ish in honour of strife and lying collabing, and also me being a terrible person and having awful friends.
> 
> (draft title for this work was "here have tentacles. literally no one is surprised i am offering them tentacles.")

“Oh,” murmured Lying, smiling a smile that was all teeth and hunger and sickly-false sweetness as they dragged sharp, bloodred nails lightly over the pulled-back, overlapping scales of Strife’s leaves. “Oh, how… _cute_.” They licked absently at their lower lip and looked up to meet Strife’s eyes, grin widening. “Delightful.”

Strife flushed, eyebrows drawing together in a scowl and leaves shifting over one another with an audible _hiss_ as they half-closed again at the squirming embarrassment in his stomach. “Hey!” he objected, reaching out to grab Lying’s wrist and tug it away until the alarmingly sharpened tips of their nails were no longer in contact with the delicate skin down there. “Hey, be- be gentle with that.”

Inclining his head, Lying withdrew their hand. “My apologies,” they said, somehow managing to make the words both sweet and dismissive. They were staring at the space between Strife’s legs, at the low, fluctuating glow of his cillia and the slow uncurling of his fronds, the way the small tendrils branching off from them spread out at the touch of warm air.

“Oh, that is just _precious_ ,” they murmured, when one of the fronds uncurled enough to reach for their hand, coiling boldly around one finger and shifting tendrils across the cool surface of their skin to explore the object it had just caught. “Hello, little one. Aren’t you _sweet_.”

The flush across Strife’s cheekbones darkened, spreading across his cheeks and down to mottle the hollow of his throat and the lengths of his collarbones a pale green. “You’re _talking_ to them?” he scoffed, all bluster and bravado, biting the inside of his cheek nearly hard enough to draw blood when Lying dragged a careful thumb down the length of the wayward frond. “ _Really_?”

“But they’re so _small_ , so… delicate.” Lying hummed thoughtfully, spreading their fingers out and giggling softly when a second enterprising frond grabbed at their pinky, twining firmly around the first knuckle in a small bundle. “Bless.”

“Hey! Hey, don’t- don’t be so goddamn rude,” grumbled Strife, reaching out to tug the tendrils gently off Lying’s fingers, cupping them carefully in one hand and shielding both them and his cillia from view. “They’re perfectly normal where I come from. What the hell do _yours_ look like, then?”

Lying raised a thoughtful eyebrow. “I suppose it’s only fair,” they said slowly. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, and all that.” They pulled their hand back from where they’d left it hovering between themself and Strife, lifting their shirt a little to get at the fastenings for their pants. “Though I must say, mine do look rather different to yours.”

They slid their pants down around their thighs before rising up onto their knees, lifting each leg in turn to pull the fabric to their ankles before slipping out of the pants entirely and discarding them somewhere on the floor. “There,” they said, primly, settling back down and spreading their legs easily, unselfconsciously, so Strife could get a look. “ _Much_ better."

Snorting amusement, Strife raised an eyebrow at the sight of the small nubs between Lying’s legs, barely an inch long, fading from the pale, almost sickly-white hue of his skin to an inky bruise-purple at the tips. “ _Those_ are your tentacles?” he asked, faint derision in his voice almost overpowered by the relief that there was nothing particularly monstrous there. “Hah! And you were making fun of _mine_ for being small. C’mon, those hardly count.”

“Just watch,” said Lying, even and patient, catching their tongue between pointed teeth in concentration. They placed a palm flat against their stomach – shirt hitched up around their ribs to reveal the flat plane of their stomach, the prominent jut of their hip bones – and slid it downwards, humming contentment when their fingers met the soft bumps between their legs.

Slowly, lazily, they began rutting forward, rolling their hips against the solid softness of their palm and using their thumb to coax the nubs to hardness and arousal. As Strife watched, they lengthened, darkening to oil-spill black and grabbing at Lying’s wrist with a determined enthusiasm. Slick dripped from them, thick and smearing translucent darkness across Lying’s skin wherever they brushed against at.

Lying kept going, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth half-open, the tip of their tongue resting on the curve of their lower lip. They couldn’t quite contain the soft noises of satisfaction that bubbled up from deep in their chest, a slight hitch on the exhale and a contented hum with every drag of their crotch against their palm, the friction a low ember of warmth slowly fanning to flame in the pit of their stomach.

By the time they stopped, panting a little, head tilted up towards the ceiling to bare the long line of their throat, the tentacles had wound down their arm almost up to the elbow. Slick, writhing loops clung to them, covering every inch of skin and sliding over one another in a motion that was disturbingly organic, disturbingly _parasitic_.

“Oh,” managed Strife, voice very small and eyes very wide. “Oh, god.”

Torn between amusement and indignation, Lying settled for a quiet snort, spreading their fingers wider to allow their tentacles to slip between them more easily, coiling eagerly through the new space and twining around their hand. “Not a fan of them, Strife?” they asked, a touch icily. “I suppose they are somewhat alarming.”

“I-” Strife cut off with an audible gulp as Lying attempted to extricate they arm and the barbs slid out, digging lightly into their skin and drawing pinpricks of blood. “Oh sweet Jesus.”

Unable to stop the laughter bubbling up in their throat, Lying giggled, a high, unpleasant sound that settled in Strife’s bones in much the same way the scrape of nails down chalkboard did. “Don’t worry,” they soothed, voice entirely lacking reassurance of any kind. “They’re very friendly!”

In the absence of warm flesh to coil around, Lying’s tentacles began stretching out, elongating impossibly to coil around the hard muscle of Strife’s thighs, brush oily slick across his stomach, probe curiously at the pulled-back leaves and the glowing cillia they had exposed. Some went a step further, coiling with the fronds that had stretched oh-so-tentatively out to greet them and circling the entrance to his sheathe with slow curiosity.

Strife sucked in a sharp breath – from fear or arousal, or some combination of the two – trying to ignore the heady sensation of his fronds wrapped around something soft and damp and yielding, the barely-there friction of them sliding against something so slick.

Humming thoughtfully, Lying reached out and brushed two fingers over one of the joins between their tentacles and Strife’s tendrils. “I think they _like_ you,” they said, slowly, delighted, barely noticing the way Strife twitched at the friction. The tendril gripped a little tighter under Lying’s touch, and they inhaled sharply, tongue swiping over their lower lip at the faint trickle of pleasure it sent through them. “Oh, how _bold_. Adorable.”

The noise that escaped Strife’s chest sounded suspiciously like a strained whimper. “God,” he repeated, quietly, staring down at where his own glowing green fronds coiled luminescent and fragile around the bruised black of Lying’s.

It was an effort not to shift his hips, pull back a little to feel the way his fronds dragged against them – effort that was entirely wasted when one of the tentacles that had been playing with his cillia prodded curiously at his sheathe. It pushed in a little, the blunt head of it slipping easily through his entrance and dragging against the over-sensitive cillia that lined the inside.

Strife jolted back like he’d been burned by the lightning pleasure it sent streaking down his spine. Exhaling slowly and unevenly, he tried to ignore the warmth across his cheekbones, the heat in the pit of his stomach, the way he could feel the freckles scattered across his skin blazing like stars. “They’re-” he managed, swallowing hard, “they’re not going to- to do the spikey thing, are they?” His hands curled into fists where they were resting on his knees, white-knuckled.

“Oh, no, probably not.” Lying flashed a wide smile full of white, immaculate, serrated teeth that was not reassuring in the slightest. “Only if you try and wriggle too much. They don’t like it when the prey tries to escape.”


End file.
